Till Death Do Us Part
by moelock
Summary: A case in which Sherlock Holmes returns as a zombie and John Watson proves to be his greatest asset and support. Post-Reichenbach.


**Title**: Till Death Do Us Part  
><strong>Summary:<strong> A case in which Sherlock Holmes returns as a zombie and John Watson proves to be his greatest asset and support.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M (for sexual instances and gore)  
><strong>Pairing(s): <strong>Established Sherlock/John

**A/N:** Post-Reichenbach so there will be occasional spoilers for season 2. I was inspired by an episode in the (amazing) series Misfits, where there's a power to bring people back to life, but as a consequence, the resurrected become the un-dead.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong> Squirrel

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><p>Two days since Sherlock Holmes's funeral. Exactly a week since his death.<p>

Well. Not quite.

John looked at his watch and saw the next minute tick by. Now, it was exactly a week.

An entire week since John Watson was without Sherlock Holmes. Every night he had dreams – nightmares – about his life with Sherlock, all of them ending with blood, a never-ending stream of blood, drowning Sherlock, the anguish in John's heart being enough to stun him awake and reduce him to a trembling mess.

For an entire week, John sat in his chair, staring blankly at Sherlock's chair that was still directly across from him, unmoving and so alone. Occasionally, when he felt exceptionally sad, John would let out a shaky sigh, his eyes dry from crying _too many_ tears, and stand up. Every step he took increased the heavy weight on his shoulders as he made the unbearably long stride to Sherlock's empty chair. He would hesitantly sit in it, bring his legs in, and rest his head between his knees, hoping that maybe if he sat there long enough, his body would bring warmth to the chair and make him believe for the slightest moment that Sherlock had returned. It still smelled like him; a mix of chemicals, tobacco, and a hint of something sweet (soap) that was so distinctly (and now painfully) Sherlock.

John hadn't touched anything else of Sherlock's. Experiments were still splayed across the kitchen counter and severed limbs were still preserved in the fridge. Mrs Hudson offered to help him take it all out – the amazing woman, even though she was suffering from the great loss, too – but John declined with a strained smile. Mrs Hudson looked at him with such sad eyes, but then she nodded, "I understand, dear," because she knew just how deep the bond between them was. Best friends, brothers, lovers, everything they had ever looked for in life and so much more.

Silence replaced the usual hustle and bustle of the flat. Even when Sherlock was in one of his moods and didn't even bother to eat or talk, his violin never failed to sing for the residents of Baker Street. John found he missed it. Yes, he even missed its miserable shrieking at all hours of the night. He was surprised when the neighbours didn't complain, but then there were the days where Sherlock played something nice and then John understood. When Sherlock actually tried, the music his violin made when the bow hit the strings was heavenly. It was more than enough to make up for the frequent wails of the violin when Sherlock was in a particularly gloomy disposition. There were also times when Sherlock's playing was _sensual_ – he was, in more ways than one, a very talented man. And then there were times, when Sherlock would be up later than John (which was almost always) and hear him scream from nightmares. He would rush up, burst through the door without a knock, embrace John, then lull him back to a dreamless sleep with sweet melodies. John missed these moments the most.

So when a furious knocking on the door downstairs disturbed the eerie quiet that hung over John's head, he jumped. People visiting John to give their condolences had completely ceased for three days and he wasn't expecting anyone. Lestrade knew to give John his space and so did Molly, Sarah, Mike, anyone who he was close enough to care about his well-being. Mycroft had a knack for showing up at the most inopportune moments, but he knew as well as the others that this was a sensitive time and his random visits were unwelcome.

John didn't get up to answer. He shut his eyes, hoping that the lack of vision would maybe help his ears to fog up, too. If it was a client, they should have known better. It was so obvious to John that Sherlock was dead so it should have been obvious to the rest of the lot. Every time he woke up, the emptiness in his heart and in the flat was a smack in the face. In fact, the world should have stopped turning the moment Sherlock jumped off of that roof. But it didn't. Everyone continued on – everyone, except John.

But then again, John should have known better. That wasn't a client. Clients always rang the bell. "Single ring. Maximum pressure just under the half second," he could almost hear Sherlock rumble, voice brimming with a childlike anticipation. John rubbed at his eyes with the balls of his hands and sighed.

Another knock, this time more considerate but urgent.

"Ignore it," John muttered to himself. Seeing people was not something he wanted to do yet.

Another series of knocks.

Where was Mrs Hudson?

Oh, yes, she was out at Tesco.

John cursed under his breath and nearly stumbled down the stairs. His limp was coming back, but he hadn't bothered getting a new cane. With Sherlock gone, he wasn't going to do much moving for a long time.

Just as he got to the bottom of the stairs, another knock came, "Yes, yes! All right!" he shouted.

John reached for the handle and swung the door open with so much force, he nearly hit himself.

"What is it –?"

Oh, God.

There was a time when John was a child and was learning how to ride a bike. He was preoccupied with Harry constantly yelling at him "Don't fall! Don't fall, John!" not out of concern, but to break his concentration. Her patronizing laughter was working marvellously. Then when she suddenly stopped her cackling and yelled "John!" with actual worry, John was too slow. The front wheel of his bike collided with the curb and the impact caused the bike to rise and fall forward. The force flung him over and he landed hard on the black, sun-baked asphalt. The pain and discomfort was so great, John couldn't even move. The air was knocked completely out of him and his mind went completely blank.

That's exactly how he felt now, only the shock was a hundred times greater.

Sherlock stood in front of him, looking as pristine as ever. A crimson smudge of blood outlined his full lips and trickled down his chin. John somehow knew the blood wasn't Sherlock's but it still made his stomach churn.

_The blood wasn't Sherlock's._ John quickly scanned this supernatural being that was standing there – it had to be a ghost, there was no explanation but was being a ghost even a viable explanation? – for any injury, any sign of the fall. There was none.

If John punched the ghost, would he feel it?

Well, fuck logic. Before he could even give himself an answer, John realized that he had punched Sherlock, square in the jaw. Sherlock staggered back with a grunt and fell flat on his bottom. Oh, he definitely felt that. Re-enacting that day they first met Irene Adler, John flung himself on Sherlock before he could recover from the daze, and grabbed him by his scarf, bringing his face just an inch away from his own.

John couldn't say anything. There was so much he wanted to say, but his mouth went dry and he knew that if he tried to speak, all he could probably muster would be a whimper. Was this a dream? Or was this man really a ghost? If he was a ghost, could anyone else see him?

"John," came the voice; _his_ voice.

John's heart threatened to stop beating.

When there was no answer, the voice tried again.

"John."

Sherlock's breath smelled faintly of blood, but the sound of him and the realization of his all-too-familiar warmth beneath John's weight, was too much for John to really notice.

"One more time," John had managed, his voice a hoarse whisper, breaking under the pressure of his bottled emotions.

Sherlock – John was certain this was Sherlock now – lifted a hand and gently cupped his cheek, "John."

A moment of silence passed between them. John took in a breath, "God, you bastard. You wanker. You stupid fuck," tears welled in his eyes and they spilled over, falling onto Sherlock's face with a faint _drip drop drip_. Watching John with more concern and remorse than ever before, Sherlock extended his thumb and tried to wipe away the tears. In the midst of his crying, John released his grip on Sherlock's scarf. Sherlock then pulled John in and wrapped his arms around him, tightly. John let out a laugh – something that was a mix of relief and sadness – and Sherlock buried his head into John's shoulder (the good one). "Hello," he said.

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><p>Sherlock didn't sit in his chair. He sat on the sofa and patted the space next to him, asking John to join him.<p>

John took the cleanest towel he could find and ran it under warm water. He accepted Sherlock's invitation and began dabbing at the blood on his face. Sherlock watched him intently. He noticed the limping, but decided not to mention it.

"So what's all this, then?" John asked, calm enough now so that his words didn't come out as a hurried whisper.

A contemplative pause. Then playing dumb. "What do you mean?"

John slapped Sherlock's cheek with the towel, "No, I'll have none of that. I deserve an explanation."

"I don't have one. I was supposed to be dead," he broke off when he saw John wince at the word, but continued again when John gave him a reassuring nod, "I was dead, John. Someone must have dug up my grave. I woke up in my coffin, above ground, opened, but there was no one around."

John finished wiping the blood then sat back against the armrest, facing Sherlock, who did the same. John looked at him, sceptical, "So you're saying you're…"

Sherlock gave a curt nod, "I was resurrected."

"Right," the word was drawn out.

"You don't believe me."

"Sherlock, look, people don't just come back alive. For all we both know, this could be a dream."

"But it's not."

John fell back into the stony expression he wore since Sherlock's death, "You don't know that. I don't even know that. Ever since you died, it's been hard distinguishing between my dreams and reality. I get them mixed up all the time and you're… you're always in them."

Sherlock seemed to be physically affected by that.

"If this is a dream though, it's been one of the better ones." John tried to brighten up the situation.

"It's not a dream, John."

Sherlock leaned forward on his hands, closing the gap between them. He straddled John's thighs, but then stopped moving all together. He was hesitant, almost afraid of touching him.

After a long moment of silence, "It's not a dream, right?" John asked.

"No, not a dream," Sherlock's voice was firm, confident, his gaze intense and just by locking eyes with him, John felt like he was on fire.

"Good," John flashed an encouraging smile.

Sherlock replied with a quick peck on the lips. Then he gave a sly grin, "Your turn," he challenged.

John gave a smirk, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He grabbed Sherlock's shirt – he was wearing that deliciously tight purple one – and pulled him forward, capturing his perfect lips with his own. John started out gently, no tongue, softly tugging and pulling, controlling his breathing. Sherlock pushed his weight onto John, telling him to fall back. John did, and brought Sherlock with him, not daring to break the kiss because doing so might wake him up – but no, _This isn't a dream_, he tried to tell himself. Both of their eyes fluttered closed.

Sherlock deepened the kiss, impatient and unable to take any more of John's teasing. John chuckled into the kiss. A waft of blood lingering on Sherlock's mouth hit him, but he didn't mind. It made the touching, the warmth, everything that much more poignant, more real. John latched onto Sherlock's tongue and sucked, eliciting a pleased moan. In revenge and as a reward, Sherlock rolled is hips forward, grinding against John's groin. John lifted his hips to meet him, bringing a hand up and behind Sherlock's neck and grabbing a fistful of auburn curls.

The kiss quickly went from experimental to one of incredible passion. John was pressed flush up against Sherlock's chest, which was heaving up and down in rhythm to their grinding.

Sherlock was the first to break the kiss and John's eyes flashed open, afraid that the dream was over, but then the heat continued to build as Sherlock dipped down and ran his tongue along John's collarbone, grazing the skin with the slightest show of teeth. God, it felt so good. Sherlock came back up and kissed John again. He let out a feral, animalistic snarl – John dully noted that this was odd – and what began as a sensual nibble on John's lower lip turned into a ferocious bite.

John let out a low yelp. Startled by the noise, Sherlock immediately backed off. John rubbed his lip with his thumb, coming back to see that there was no blood. Good, so the skin didn't break, which was a surprise, considering how hard Sherlock had bitten. "What the hell was that?"

Sherlock scrambled back, lifting himself off of John and resuming his initial position on the other side of the sofa. John was disappointed at the sudden distance, but the warmth of the other body still lingered. Panic was written all over Sherlock's face. Apparently, he didn't mean to do that. "Sorry," he murmured, eyes darting to and fro, trying their best to not look at John. He was just as confused as John was.

"No, well, the biting was fine. You know I'm all right with that. It's not anything new, but you hardly ever get that excited from a kiss."

"It has been a week."

"Says the man who lived off of just masturbating since his university days."

Now Sherlock met John's eyes, "You're a special case." The seriousness of his tone was frightening yet endearing.

John couldn't help but smile, "Yeah, I know."

Sherlock returned the smile. It was small and slight, but John saw it.

"Well… I guess I'm pretty sure this isn't a dream anymore."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, "I'm hardly ever wrong." He tried to maintain a normal conversation, but John caught the anxiety still clouding his eyes.

John frowned, "You okay?"

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing. Then slowly, he shook his head.

"Want to tell me what's wrong? We can start with the blood that was all over your face since I'm pretty sure you can explain that much." John gestured to the towel that had somehow been discarded onto the floor during the chaos of their snogging session.

"I got hungry."

John raised an eyebrow, "You got hungry?"

"So I ate a squirrel."

Wait. Hold up.

"What?"

"You heard me," Sherlock sounded defensive.

"You ate a squirrel. Where did you get the squirrel?"

Sherlock seemed to sink into the sofa like a little boy hiding because he was guilty of stealing cookie from the cookie jar when his mother had explicitly told him not to, "The cemetery."

John was in shock. This was too much shock for one day. He had heard of people eating animals that he would rather not put in his mouth, but eating a squirrel, in a cemetery, raw, fur and all, for a man who thought eating was boring, was unbelievable. "Well, that explains the blood…"

"Yes," was Sherlock's only response.

"Is that why you bit me? You're still hungry?"

Sherlock looked scared now, "I would never hurt you. You know that."

This was getting weird. John nodded, "Of course. I'm not saying you would. You're acting really strange, though," then as a means to lighten the mood, he continued, "This happens in movies a lot. Where people come back from the dead and it's always too good to be true, so they turn into zombies. You know, they eat flesh and stuff like that. This is like a movie." John let out a nervous laugh.

When Sherlock didn't join in, it was John's turn to worry.

"Sherlock?"

"You remember what I told you when we were doing the Baskerville case."

"You said a lot of things."

Sherlock sighed, then brought his fingertips together under his chin – the thinking position – "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable –"

"—must be the truth," John finished.

"Exactly."

"But Sherlock –"

"Yes, there was a perfectly 'rational' explanation to that case. However, this? This is a completely different problem," Sherlock stretched his legs out in front of him, his feet reaching John's stomach.

"What are we going to do about your –, " John paused to think about the right word, "—your appetite?"

"We go hunting. People won't notice a few ducks and squirrels going missing from the park down the street," Sherlock's idea of a (crude) joke.

"Stocking up on meat, then," John sighed and slumped against the sofa, "Right. Right. Jesus."

"Problem?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"No, no, it's just," John ran a hand through his hair and groaned, "you're a fucking zombie."

A smile crept onto Sherlock's face, "Yes. An interesting turn of events."


End file.
